


Monochromatic

by ChasingIQs



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ...and really loves Sherlock platonically, Abduction, Case Fic, Freeform, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mild Sexual Content, Post-His Last Vow, except John really does love Mary romantically, jonlock if you squint, multiple character deaths, okay there is actually blatant jonlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-02-25 13:58:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2624351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChasingIQs/pseuds/ChasingIQs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock’s brows came together in a crease of worry. <i>How long have I missed him? </i>He dug into his pocket and his mobile phone flicked to life. He typed a text message:</p><p>  <b>We’ll need another case soon. -SH</b></p><p>He nodded to himself, affirming his actions. “This would be so much easier if you were just here.” Sherlock spoke as if John were the phone.</p><p> </p><p>A baby changes everything. Sherlock attempts to recruit John for a particularly strange case involving Mycroft and a mysterious underground criminal agency. Maybe things can go back to the way they were before? Or will Sherlock spend the rest of his days alone?</p><p> </p><p>--This is my first fic. Please feel free to mention missing tags (or if I missed any triggers). Critiques are welcome!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I’m sure you can understand my predicament, Mr. Black.” Smoke from the short end of a cigarette wafted in a noxious cloud above the two men. They sat in the corner of The Rose and Crown, bustling noisily as the peak of happy hour overtook the pub. The dark corner table where two, seemingly cordial, businessmen occupied supported two pints of an on house tap; they didn't draw too much attention. The wait staff took their time with these men—they were satisfied for now—and patrons nearby were already a few down as far as the evident empty glasses; no one would be paying too much attention now.

“I understand fully,” Mr. Black began, tapping his own cigarette in the ash tray between them. “It’s not often my…organization…is not given too many options on how to get the _job done_.”

“I simply request one of your _specialists_ to manage a reasonable extraction, and I will fill the vacancy.”

“You are aware that also my organization is very well versed in the area of _negotiation_. We can always provide impressive relocations…”

“Extraction. Nothing less. I understand the price.” The darkly clad businessmen seated across from Mr. Black supplied from his suit jacket pocket, his check book. He began to write in a substantial figure. “Consider this a down payment. The balance will follow at the conclusion of the job.” He signed the check and tore it from its booklet. Folding it in half, he slid it over the table surface to Mr. Black.

Mr. Black accepted the check and tucked it away within his jacket’s inner pocket.  “Extraction, nothing less. I’ll put a team on collections tonight.” Mr. Black swallowed visibly, the monetary amount running through his head. His mouth practically watered with the possibilities such entireties could buy. He supplied a small black simple flip phone from his trousers pocket and punched a few keys before slipping it back into place. He lifted his glass in the air. “To your winning campaign.”

The man smiled and lifted his in turn. “Cheers, Mr. Black.”

A waitress materialized at this moment. “May I get you gentlemen anything else?”

“Another round, please. On my tab.” Mr. Black confirmed and then smiled to dismiss the waitress. As she left and usual raucous of the pub intensified, Mr. Black lowered his voice. “If I may ask, you haven’t specified a target.”

The darkly clad man supplied a dark smile. “Mycroft Holmes.”

Mr. Black returned an equally sinister smile. “This won’t be easy; Mr. Holmes won’t go down without a substantial fight. However, your _challenge_ also gives me with an opportunity I’d been hoping to act on for some time now.”

“Care to share?”

“Family business.” Mr. Black’s short black hair was illuminated by a passing pair of headlights through a window as the waitress supplied two more pints and removed the empties. “Mycroft is my elder brother.”

The man’s eyebrows rose considerably while pulling in a long sip from the glass. “Family Business? Or Problems?”

“Both. Mycroft has forever been trying to track me down since…well, a long time. My organization takes pride to always be one step ahead of the law enforcers.  It’s been a pleasure being able to dance circles around this man with half the government under his thumb…but it will be nice to see a more _friendly_ face within their mix.” He nodded and raised his glass to the man. "This line of work can be..." 

"Tedious?" 

"Tedious." Mr. Black confirmed.

“The younger Holmes will undoubtedly try to find you when your end of the job is done.”

Mr. Black chuckled darkly. “I hope he does, Mr. Wilkes.”


	2. Chapter 2

It was raining. As if that was anything new. The interior of flat which occupied the space at 221B Baker Street was quiet…as quiet as it could get on a normal day. The damask-inspired wallpaper had been turned into a giant bulletin board. Pinned notes scribbled with observations surrounded an area map which were linked together with a red inked marker...had all aligned to supply one singular suspect; who was now being processed with London’s finest.

“Case closed.” Sherlock Holmes sighed and slid his hands in his pockets and glanced over his handiwork once more before systematically removed each push pin, progressively revealing the wallpaper again. “John? We’ll need another case soon.” The pins were flicked into a drawer, the notes and named suspect piled in his hands. He tossed the pile into his desk…table…he couldn’t really identify the piece of furniture any longer. It was overrun with books, notepads, a laptop, pens…it reminded him of his years in university. The added pile would find itself eventually tucked in a notebook…eventually. If any data from this case were to be needed in the future, notebooks of previous cases helped.

“John?” He spun and took in the room around him. _No John?_ The flat was quiet. The rain splashed on the windows in a rhythmic pattering. Sherlock removed himself from the den and moved towards the kitchen. The kitchen was also empty, no water boiling in the kettle or jam jar on the counter. _Evidence of a missing John Watson._

Sherlock’s brows came together in a crease of worry. _How long have I missed him?_ He dug into his pocket and his mobile phone flicked to life. He typed a text message:

**We’ll need another case soon. -SH**

He nodded to himself, affirming his actions. “This would be so much easier if you were just here.” Sherlock spoke as if John were the phone.

No reply.

Still no reply.

“This is getting tedious.”

**John? Is your phone working? A case! We need one. –SH**

He kept the phone in his hand as he drifted from the kitchen back into the den, and then down the hall into his bedroom. Ducking into his closet, he supplied an empty notebook from a container. Shutting the door with his foot, he opened the empty notebook and returned to the den. He stood over the recently closed case notes and began to insert these into pages.

His phone chimed to indicate an incoming message. “Finally.”

**Sorry, Sherlock. William isn’t feeling well. Probably should stay home. –JW**

“Damn offspring.” He cursed the lack of his friend on the infant, but instantly felt a twinge of guilt; babies don’t have morals.

**Well if you’d kept him away from Greenway Park he wouldn't be sick. –SH**

A text response was received much faster than the last.

**How did you know—never mind. Leave me to take care of my son. We’ll find another case soon. –JW**

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Why couldn’t John leave the baby alone? It wasn’t like William was going anywhere; the child couldn’t even manage major motor skills yet! He swiped his thumb pads across the mobile’s screen and sent another message to John.

**But I can’t neglect the work, John! –SH**

Sherlock received an equally fast response as before.

**Then you know how I feel about William, Sherlock. -JW**


	3. Chapter 3

                William had finally found a comfortable position in which he slept soundly. The humidifier in the nursery churning warm moisture to the air had seemed to help relieve the infant’s sniffles.

                _Sniffles. Technical term._ John smirked at himself, he was far too tired to try to bring up proper symptom descriptions.  He was on the edge of feeling slightly delirious. John's natural instinct to answer the distress call of others, especially his own son, kept him awake for the better part of the previous 48 hours; monitoring the infant's temperature and trying to drain any mucus from William's windpipes. Which would cause baby William to cough and this would agitate the mucus which John feared it could develop into something worse. But John's endless watch over his son seemed to prove triumphant over the virus. William hadn't been right since the previous evening—John was forced to bow out of witnessing Scotland Yard arrest the recently convicted suspect which he and Sherlock had helped to identify.

 _Mostly Sherlock._ John’s smirk vanished. He adored being a father, and a husband to Mary. But trying to balance his other life’s passion was getting tricky. _Once William matures a bit, it’ll be easier to step away._ John nodded to himself and found himself stretching into a great yawn. He blinked a few times before checking his illuminated wrist-watch.

“Four in the morning. Wonderful.” He had stayed awake to ensure William didn't find himself in a sleeping position which would hinder his breathing—sniffles and infants were an unfavorable combination. But while he had hoped to catch some sleep on the soft rocker in the nursery, he realized sleep wasn't in his cards tonight; his instincts focused on William overrode his own needs for rest.

For now.

Even machines have their limits.

 _It’s not so different like that case when Sherlock and I sorted through two bookworms flats’ worth of books. You can stay awake, John!_ But his internal pep-talk did little to defend against the exhaustion his body was feeling. At the time of the case, the pair was feeding each other’s adrenaline—this was a murder they had to solve! The only motivation suspended in the room tonight…or morning…was a softly snoring baby. John's blinking was slow and heavy; his eyelids straining to remain open. A few birds outside the nursery’s windows had begun to chirp, welcoming the dawn.

“Oh, bloody brilliant.” John glowered at the birds. Normally the noise wouldn't bother him, but when the peaceful quiet of the night is stolen by irksome squawks, the usually mellow doctor turned ornery. His body felt tensed in reaction to the rude interruption to his few precious moments of peace and calm. He dug his palms into his eyes and rubbed, trying to stimulate them to remain open. The squawking by William's window was unbearable, after everything John had done to ensure a peaceful night for his son, he suddenly felt a burn of rage creep up his bones. The only thing which stopped John from getting his revolver and shooting the bird on site was the sight of the peacefully sleeping infant in the crib beneath the window. 

John sighed and sat in the rocker. William was getting healthier, he would be able to have a normal day tomorrow. Mary would be home in the day and she would probably put some turnips and peas together to make William's baby food. He could imagine her reading to the infant--probably one of her own books--William would just want to hear his mother's voice. Later helping William take his nap by lying down near him first on a quilt on their bed, and then putting him in the crib once he was asleep. Once William would wake, he'd be hungry again.

And repeat.

Is this normal now? 

John quietly realized that his life was never going to be as it was while he was still a bachelor with Sherlock. He would have to make a decision…but his blood yearned for action. A soldier on night watch regarding a 6 month old was far from exhilarating.

The hall light flicked to life, visible under the closed nursery door. The doorknob clicked and Mary’s lithe form lingered in the open space. “John?” She whispered.

“Hmm…”

Mary smiled; John could see it, despite the darkened room. She crossed the room and reached for John’s hand. She motioned for him to leave the rocking chair. “Go sleep. Properly. You’ve got to go to surgery tonight.”

John was too tired to fight, and he allowed himself to be relieved of his duties by his wife. “Thank you, sweetheart. Wake me if anything happens.” He tried to communicate _if he should get worse_ in his tone.

If Mary caught on, she didn’t make it known. She guided him to the door, kissed his shoulder, and he stepped out of the nursery and stumbled to their bedroom adjacent to William’s. 

The birds were still screeching their raucous symphony as John collapsed into bed. If he’d been at Baker Street on a normal night, the only raucous would have been Sherlock’s observations spun brilliantly into a masterful testimony. Maybe he would play his violin. One of these was more welcome than the other.

“Damn birds.”


	4. Chapter 4

_“Dr. Watson to reception, please. Dr. Watson to reception, please.”_ The intercom cracked overhead, projecting the metallic voice throughout the hospital floor. In his office, just beyond the nurse’s station, John Watson yawned in his plush leather swivel chair. He rubbed his hands over his face hoping to clear the exhaustion from his expression.

Despite his tiredness, he had a pretty good guess who it would be waiting for him in reception. John smiled. “Cheeky bastard.” He muttered and he left his desk and drifted out of his office towards the main doorway where reception was housed. Sherlock was a brilliant man, a genius who could do anything he pleases (and does, without apology) and chooses to put his command of deduction to help solve London's crimes.  John couldn’t help but smile, it was automatic when Sherlock was around. John’s memories quickly churned out the serendipitous series of events which lead to a lasting friendship.

_To think this all started with a gunshot._

Being discharged of his duty from his tour in Afghanistan was one of the more heartbreaking experiences of John’s life. He had been shot and then been _ordered_ to go home. He knew very well that many… _many_ …fellow soldiers would not be so lucky. He didn’t care to think about the number of folded flags required to honor those who had fallen. But in his abrupt return to civilian life, John found that he no longer felt required. _Nobody needs me, anymore._ But then, after a long unremitting series of episodes which made up an arduous adjustment back into civilian life, Sherlock entered John’s life and suddenly…very suddenly…he was whole again.

John’s medical occupation certainly challenged him: keeping death at bay on an almost daily basis. But not since his army days had he experienced anything which made him feel as essential as he did working alongside Sherlock Holmes. John had become well versed in the role of the soldier and had developed an inclination for being prepared for anything. But nothing could ever prepare him for the friendship which revolved around Sherlock Holmes. 

 

 

The tall detective watched the doorway where his friend would emerge—his grin never leaving his face as John strode toward him.  _My friend. Let’s go back to how we were._ But despite his hopeful grin on his face, his masterful brain wasn’t required to know the answer.

Nothing would be the same.

As unpredictable as Sherlock Holmes could be, he would always be drawn to Dr. John Watson. The two friends filled each other’s voids—as Sherlock would dive head first into danger, John would follow and provide support.

Sherlock was careful and confident as he observed others and his surroundings. He’d use it to his advantage…often leveraging his mastery of observations for his own gain. But Sherlock was losing confidence in his life without John Watson. _I’d be lost without my blogger._ He’d once said…the gravity of the quip suddenly very real. Sherlock wasn’t sure he could do the work alone anymore. Sherlock made his living based on revealing pertinent components of crimes which may otherwise have been ignored. Cases without Sherlock, potentially doomed cold cases, would have never been solved. Justice was served and families could stich their lives back together because of Sherlock…and John.

Sherlock’s mouth spread into an automatic grin as his eyes locked on John’s frame. Instantly his brain felt more at ease at the sight of him. Willingly striding toward him, was the only person in this world who saw through the taciturn exterior which cocooned Sherlock and shattered it with three words after they’d met: “That…was amazing.”

From then on it was the two friends out to save the world, one ridiculous adventure at a time.

Sherlock extended his hand to his best friend.

Sherlock saw John sigh drowsily but grasped his hand with a sincere grin over his face. Sherlock held it firmly and his warm only-for-John-grin widened.

“You, cheeky bastard. What on earth are you doing here?” John demanded lightheartedly, releasing their hands and nodded towards his office behind his shoulder. Sherlock, unquestioningly, followed.

“Seeing my doctor.” He retorted. They both entered John’s office and John closed the door behind them. Sherlock sat down in one of the available armchairs facing John’s desk. John returned to his swivel chair behind his desk but sat very still. He pulled the chair closer to the desk, trying to close the distance between the two friends.

“Tea?” John offered.

“No thank you, John.” Sherlock sighed, observing the spare office.

Neat…Papers filed and sorted in folders (probably all facing the same direction, no doubt) in labeled drawers. Any books displayed were facing the same direction and recently dusted. The rubbish bin was empty and wiped with disinfectant. _Bleach?_ John’s laptop followed him to work, it was closed—it didn’t occupy much space on the desk’s surface. No other objects in sight on display with the exception of his doctorate from the military and university. On a hook next to the office door was his satchel, probably contained a change of clothes and his wallet. Possibly also containing a passport; exit strategy.

It was as if John couldn’t leave the war behind him, he was still battle-ready.

 “John, in all seriousness, I’m here because I’m working on a case and I’d like to ask for your assistance.”

 

 

John’s eyebrows rose considerably. “Already? Sherlock, just last night you were—” His sentence was interrupted by an unwelcomed yawn. “Excuse me. You were agitated because you hadn’t found one.”

“8 hours is an insufferable length of time to go without work.”

John chuckled, his eyes crinkling to highlight his laugh lines around his face; they were often accented around Sherlock. “Right, so…case? How can I help?” John covered his mouth again as another yawn surfaced.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his friend. “Are you alright?”

“William didn’t sleep much. I slept less.”

“I gathered that.” Sherlock replied, sweeping his eyes over John’s face. “Where was Mary?”

John cleared this throat. “I didn’t want to burden her.” His lips were drawn into a line, his eyes bleary and… _defeated_.

“John, I don’t think you’ve ever been a burden.” Sherlock lowered his voice, “To anyone.”

Their eyes locked for a moment. For a brief moment in time it felt like they were in their own chairs in Baker Street, not divided by John’s office desk with the constant smell of isopropanol lingering in the air.

John sighed and stared into Sherlock’s steely gray eyes. “I need to support my family, Sherlock. I can’t drop the surgery.” As excited as he was to see his best friend, John was also looking forward to sleep. He was looking forward to going home, kissing his wife, Mary, taking care of William, eating a small healthy dinner, and sleeping in his own bed: simple and idyllic. But at the same time, the thought of doing this every day and night for the rest of his life made his skin crawl. The air suddenly felt suffocating and his tie too restrictive.

John’s blood sang to be in action, it was one of the reasons he had decided to join the army in the first place. Running through dark streets of London, dodging bullets and jumping rooftops were typical nights for the pair. John’s pulse quickened at the memories. Here was John’s own living addiction, and it was enticing to think of the possibility he could work a case again. Sherlock was unquestionably anything but domestic and John loved it…and Sherlock knew it.

“You won’t be of much help to a sick infant or your wife if you’re also worn out, John.” Sherlock’s eyes sparkled wickedly. “Step away for a while. Recuperate? ”

“By chasing low-lives and playing roulette with the refrigerator contents?” John sat up straighter. He chuckled, “It’s tempting.” He blinked a few times, the light slowly returning to his eyes.

This is what Sherlock did to John: he offered the freedom of adventures and satisfied John’s own corporeal needs for seeking adrenaline rushes.

 “John, let me get you out of surgery for a while. Come work by my side again.” Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, clasping his hands together and using his elbows to support his upper body. 

John mimicked Sherlock’s typical thinking posture: he leaned over his desk and laced his hands together under his chin. A habit he had picked up from living with Sherlock for so long. He would have loved nothing more than to escape from dull domestic life and run back into the mysterious world which revolved around Sherlock Holmes; the world which brought him out of his own gloom and isolation. _I was so alone. And I owe you so much._ He could go back. He could help with just one more case. 

“Alright, Sherlock. I can ask for an on-call schedule only for a while. But if I’m called in, I will _need_ to leave. Yes?”

Sherlock’s face lit up. “Thank you, John!”

“What’s the case, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s grinning face never faltered, as he produced a folded letter from his jacket pocket. “Lestrade emailed this to me this morning.”

John accepted the letter and felt his heart pick up a touch—this felt real. It felt right. It felt right to be working with Sherlock again. “The game is on.”

Sherlock nodded and chuckled in his throat. “Yes, John. The game is on. Hurry up and read the message.”

John read the short length of text…and again. It didn’t pose much of a case, as far as he was concerned; hardly one worthy for Sherlock.

                **Spectrum moving to Parliament.**

“Okay…so Parliament’s been targeted by…some group? A radical group…maybe terrorist branch? No…this is nothing I’ve ever heard of. What’s so special about that? I’m not understating its severity, but why involve you, Sherlock? Certainly Mycroft’s team can more than cover this?”

Sherlock’s grin had faded, but his eyes were bright as John could practically watch Sherlock’s gears in his head turn. “Read the address chain. It originates from a blocked address, but it managed to work its way into Lestrade’s inbox. Fortunately for me, I happen to know the IP address all too well to know it’s original author.”

“Mycroft sent this, didn’t he?” John filled in the gaps. “So…he’s asking for help?”

Sherlock scoffed. “I’m rather humbled.”

“Mycroft’s team is out of their depths? Suddenly I’m worried about the state of our country.”

“Breathe, John. Mycroft’s team is perfectly capable of deflecting any attack on our soil. Artillery or otherwise. It’s only Mycroft who may be jeopardized.”

“ _Only…_ How do you know? You gather that just from this email?”

“No, this helped.” He flipped the paper over and a still image, pulled from surveillance it appeared, was printed on the reverse. It showed the interior of an office, but it appeared as if a bomb tore through the room.

“An explosion? This is similar to the aftermath once a proximity mine detonates. Is Mycroft…?” He tore his eyes from the picture, immediately finding Sherlock’s.

Sherlock returned his gaze with assurance. “Look closely, John.” He motioned to the picture again and John followed his orders.

John looked again. All he saw was debris and dust fogging the camera lens, but…there! While he saw no windows, it didn’t mean there were no apparent light sources. Cast along the wall which the camera faced, were two human shadows. He gauged the stout figure could be Mycroft, but who was the second, more willowy figure?  

“He escaped?” John looked up to meet Sherlock’s eyes again, hopeful.

“Hardly. I’d say he was captured.”


	5. Chapter 5

Outside St. Bartholomew’s, tucked back in a narrow flat-lined alley, a silent figure stood vigilant up on a fire escape landing. The sidewalk ran adjacent to her perch and throngs of pedestrians hurried by, never once looking up. They were all too focused on escaping the cold winds to notice much else other than the steps it took to get home; she was invisible as far as the public was concerned. She was young, matured just beyond her adolescence years and she was known only by “Ms. Gray”.

Her gray…sometimes blue…eyes had been locked on the exits of the hospital since she watched her target enter the building. She was on a high priority mission and if she failed…she didn’t want to recall the consequences of her last failed assignment. She shuddered and her mouth felt dry…and it had nothing to do with the winter night’s chill.

The cold wind bit into her cheeks and threatened to freeze her bones, but Ms. Gray remained two stories up on the decrepit fire-escape. She had pulled the fur lined hood of her parka over her head, but the wind kept creeping into the gaps around her face. Cinching the chords through the hood’s material, she tied the hood tight around her head—she couldn’t afford any loose clothing tonight to interfere with her vision or mobility. She had a detective to track down. Possibly chase down.

She breathed deeply as her teeth began to rattle together. Her muscles began to spasm down her back—she was beyond shivering. Air traveling through her sinuses, freezing the delicate moisture on contact, it swept down her windpipe and it felt as if she’d swallowed an ice cube. She inhaled the ice wind in every breath and it cooled her throat and it moved into her digestive track; she imagined small ice crystals clinging to the walls of her esophagus.

She shivered and tried to refocus on the crowds shuffling down the sidewalks. Her target wouldn’t be too hard to spot from this vantage point; she only had to be patient.

_There!_

Sherlock Holmes and his partner, Dr. John Watson, emerged from a hospital rear exit. They both paused upon exiting, taking in the cold, to fasten their jackets and scarves more tightly, before joining the throngs of people passing by. Her eyes were glued to the pair as they moved with the flowing foot traffic in her direction. She barely registered the cold anymore; her adrenaline rushed into her veins. Her heartbeat sped up and she could feel it thump in her ears. She tried to remember to breathe evenly—a hunter never catches the prey without absolute confidence.

_And maybe a considerable amount of luck._

Ms. Gray had locked on Holmes and Watson like they each wore a tracking signal and her brain was the receiver. She swore her hearing could almost pick up their conversation. It was as if all of her senses were suddenly fine-tuned to track the pair down.

All her hope rested in this outrageous plan to track Sherlock Holmes down.

It felt strange to hope again.

A gust of wind surged through the streets, and the walls which surrounded her redirected the wind away from her. She observed Sherlock and John bow into the wind, trying to protect their bodies from the sudden rush of cold air. She released the fire escape staircase, with a swift kick of her boot, but her movements were rigid and coordination was becoming difficult against the merciless cold. Her muscles further away from her vital organs felt useless as the cold worked its way to her core. Ms. Gray willed one foot in front of the other and eventually found herself standing on the ground level as the fire escape stairs retracted safely out of reach above her head. She kept herself out of the light from the streetlamps, but quickly found Sherlock’s frame again, and stared at his face… 

…and suddenly he stared right back at her.

 

****

 

“Sherlock?” John halted abruptly, as Sherlock had done, and he peered up at his friend’s face. One hand reached for Sherlock’s coat, the other tried to shelter his own face from the cold wind.

“I’m not sure, John.” He peered into the darkness of an adjacent alleyway. “It’s…familiar.”

 _Well that didn’t clear anything up._ The alleyway was lined with a few buildings which housed some flats; old rusty fire escapes lined each wall, giving the appearance that the dark alley was much skinnier than it was. Then, like a bloodhound catching the scent of its prey, Sherlock turned and plowed into the darkness.

“Sherlock!” John hissed as he scurried behind on Sherlock’s heels. Leaving the throngs of pedestrians behind them, they squeezed between the buildings, dumpsters, rusted ladders and gates. It looked like they were headed towards a dead end, but Sherlock displayed no signs of slowing down.

Sherlock was motivated by his ceaseless curiosity and limitless need to decipher obscurities. _This figure…young woman…was watching me…why?_ John was motivated with his own bravery and dedication to Sherlock’s schemes…however harebrained they might be. The pair kept moving.

Once concealed by darkness, a doorway had now manifested before Sherlock and John. Sherlock quickly ducked into it and found he was descending downwards. John followed, not willing to leave his partner alone. _No man left behind._ The doorway provided passage through a series of twisting corridors beneath the streets of London. Above their heads the lights from the streetlamps streamed through man-made openings through the asphalt. The occasional drains or exhaust vents provided enough light to allow the men to see their path, but not what…or whom…Sherlock had pursued.

The sound of water could be heard trickling off the stone which now surrounded them. Puddles became more frequent and eventually the water had covered the stones beneath their feet entirely. Sherlock splashed through the cold stagnant water, John just steps behind him. “John? Can you see anything?”

“Why are you asking me? You’re the one with the vantage point between the two of us. What can YOU see?”

“Not much.” Sherlock’s voice sounded thin. John knew this was the start of his doubts. “I thought I saw…”

“You did see something, Sherlock. We’ll find it…”

“Her.”

“Her—wait, what? We’re following a woman? We’re stalking a woman into the sewers? Oh Christ. This is not a story for the dinner table.”

“It’s not the sewers, John, we’re too close to the surface. Most likely the water is running off of the drains above our heads and back into the reservoir—although I would avoid getting this in your mouth, all the same. And yes, we’re _tracking_ a woman.”

“Why?”

“Because I think she was tracking us…me, specifically. Let’s try this way; there are ripples which have extended to the walls. Someone’s been through here.”

Sherlock kept moving, although his pace had slowed down considerably. He eventually drew his cell phone out and utilized the screen’s light to help illuminate the ground in front of them. The grates above their heads, which was the only division from underground to the street’s surface, had become less frequent and any light which was able to trickle down had become quite faint.

“Sherlock, I can’t see anything anymore.”

“Me either, John. And it appears I’ve led us to a dead end.” The pair had stopped moving by this point; Sherlock swept the phone’s screen over the walls around them, searching for any other routes. “I am sorry. This little adventure turned…oh! There!”

But as Sherlock found another small passageway with the aid of the cell phone in front of them, it was a sound behind him which froze him in his tracks.

He spun on his heel, the phone’s light casting a bright beam before him. As he turned, it found John’s face and he held it steady there.

But his heart rate soared as he realized what else the light had uncovered: the glint of a knife held up against John’s throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spectrum is a fictional organization. Any resemblance to any actual people or groups is entirely coincidental.


	6. Chapter 6

“Sherlock, run!” John managed to squeak out and Sherlock saw the grip on the knife tighten and press deeper into John’s flesh. John didn’t move, but his expression was not unfamiliar to Sherlock. John wore his brave, determined face— _ever the solider_.

Sherlock willed his mind to make sense of his surroundings instead of affixing on John’s vulnerable neck. But his throat went dry, and his blood seemed to boil in his veins as he watched the knife’s edge dig into John. Blood…

_Wait…where is the blood?_

Sherlock willed his heart to slow down and sincerely hoped the drumming of his pulse in his ears would quiet soon; John wasn’t in danger _..._ well, at least he wouldn't be sliced open _. That is not a real knife!_

However, suffocation was still a real threat. Sherlock was well aware that the average time for a healthy human to go without oxygen was about 30 seconds. However, given that the pair had spent much of that air traversing the icy tunnels, Sherlock suspected John wouldn’t be able to hold out for too long.

“My friend, you just seem to attract all types of women.” Sherlock kept his voice calm and steady.

“It’s my charm…” John started to retort, but his words were choked off as he tried to suck air back into his lungs. A wet, strangled noise escaped his throat but he never struggled.

“You don’t want to hurt him.” Sherlock approached John and his captor palms facing outward in surrender, his left hand still clutching the cell phone. The light swept past John’s brave face, and illuminated the captor…the young woman with steel gray eyes.

But all Sherlock could think about was that seconds were slipping away for John, and the woman’s grip showed no mercy against John’s windpipe.

“You’re right. I don’t.”

John barely moved, the color in his face was becoming dramatically red—but he knew to struggle was to use extra energy he might save for his own survival. He trusted Sherlock with his life.

Now was the time to prove it.

“You need to let him go. He can’t breathe—your dull little letter opener makes for a poor knife impression. You were able to surprise us once, but you won’t have that chance again. Especially if my friend dies down here…I’d surprised if you ever made it back topside again. Drop your weapon.” Sherlock moved closer and his eyes flashed hotly, his voice low and lethal, “ _Now_.”

For a few seconds, which seemed to last an eternity, no one moved. Sherlock barely dared to breathe. Until the young woman’s voice echoed around the small stony space: “Do not run.” Suddenly the knife was gone and John staggered forward into Sherlock.

Sherlock was right there and caught John in his arms. He encircled John’s form with his right arm, and took a few steps back away from the young woman; the cell phone’s light supported with his left hand never leaving her face. John doubled over and Sherlock’s body next to him was his only support; he took great gasps of breath, coughing now and again as the cold air rushed to his starved lungs.

“You are very stupid to threaten my friend. If anything were to happen to him, I very much doubt you’d be able to walk away.” Sherlock’s voice was ice.

“I’m aware. But it was the best way to get your attention.” There was no quivering in the young woman’s voice, but Sherlock watched her swallow visibly.

John was still rubbing his neck were the weapon’s pressure had begun to heal. “Usually a murder works too.” He coughed a few more times, but had managed to stand upright. Sherlock kept one hand on John’s back.

“Murder? No, not really my area.” The young woman concealed her weapon within an inner pocket of her fur-rimmed parka. “My apologies, Dr. Watson, please know I didn’t mean you any harm. Nor to you, Mr. Holmes.”

John coughed again. And again. “You—you know our names?”

“Of course she does, John. We’re her targets.”

“Targets?” John stood much straighter, but Sherlock saw in his stance, he was also preparing to fight.

“Relax, John. Obviously she isn’t going to kill us.” He placed his right hand on John’s shoulder and moved between him and the young woman. “Now, why would someone put a mark on us as a target and yet orders not to kill us or torture us. You _absolutely_ have my attention now, miss…?”

“Ms. Gray.”

“Ms. Gray, why…” Sherlock’s words caught in his throat and he swallowed hard. First the email from Lestrade, and now _this particular_ young woman had enticed him and John underground. “You’re a Spectrum agent.”

Ms. Gray nodded. “I don’t want to harm either of you. I’m here to ask for your assistance.”

John blinked as his brain caught up with Sherlock’s. “Spectrum? Wait, didn’t Lestrade’s email…”

“Why would Spectrum seek us out? Don’t you have a legislative house to upend?” Sherlock sneered.

“What happened to Mycroft?”

It was Ms. Gray’s turn to hold her palms out in surrender. “I need your help—he’s in danger.”

“Yes, we’ve already figured that out, Ms. Gray.” John was now the one feeling agitated. His mouth pursed in a tight line, and his pulse quickened under his skin.

Sherlock stayed quiet, his eyes never leaving Ms. Gray’s face, but he remained where he stood; positioning himself between her and John. He wasn’t really quite sure if he was protecting John from further harm, or Ms. Gray from a potential attack by John’s doing. _We need her in one piece._

Ms. Gray’s face was set in stone while she confronted the two men—never faltering, never compromising or feigning weakness. But Sherlock surmised that if he were to take her pulse throughout their conversation, it would absolutely reveal her anxiety levels. _She’s too young to be out here on assignment to be this levelheaded._ Her cropped jet-black hair seemed a wild halo surrounding her face…those steely gray eyes seemed to pierce Sherlock.

“You know nothing.” She spat.

“On the contrary, Ms. Gray. I know that you’re not proud of this work, but it’s all you’ve got. Probably because you never finished school, more likely you never learned to fight. You’re favoring your right hand; indicating you are sustaining an unhealed fracture because you continue to injure it. You’re resourceful and clever, so why do you come looking for me? You’ve got an entire underground criminal network at your fingertips and yet you yearn for escape. What assistance could you possibly need from me?”

Ms. Gray’s right hand stretched fully before she made a tight fist again. “Please, your brother is in danger and I need your help to keep him alive.”

“According to the surveillance, Spectrum has already seen to his capture. Why are you asking us to help him?” John’s head was spinning and his trust for Ms. Gray was dwindling every second. “Wouldn’t you be able to help him yourself? Didn’t Sherlock just peg you as a Spectrum agent?”

Ms. Gray nodded. Her words hung heavy in the cold air around them: “I’m the one who has been given the orders to kill him.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apparently work better in dialog, so this very dialog heavy....and a touch shorter than previous chapters. Please stay tuned for more! Thank you all for reading!
> 
> Happy New Year!  
>  
> 
> *

John wasn’t sure what to say.

Sherlock huffed out a dark chuckle. “Should we try to stop you?”

“Actually, yes.”

“How would you imagine us trying to stop you?” John’s eyes suddenly flashed darkly and his fists flexed, ready to fight.

“By finding Spectrum’s client.” Ms. Gray ventured.

“Your client?” John’s face suddenly warped to look a bit bewildered; and he was a touch disappointed he wasn’t going to reciprocate this woman’s actions she’d inflicted on him earlier.

“Yes, the one who requested Mycroft’s death.”

“Okay, so who is your client?”

“Only Mr. Black knows their names, faces…bank account numbers. The rest of us are just told our clients’ intended targets.”

“Which doesn’t help us…at all. This client could be anyone.”

“This particular client has been… _very_ naughty…and is desperate. Regardless, Mr. Black has been paid HANDSOMELY to remove Mycroft and put in his place, our client. Stop our client, stop me from killing Mycroft. As I’ve said, murder is not really my area.”

John ran his hands through his hair, tugging on a few strands in frustration and stress. “Then why assign this mission to you at all? Your boss doesn’t seem to know his… _team_ …very well.”

It was Ms. Gray’s turn to look frustrated. “This is considered, to him, a high priority mission. These usually fall into my portfolio from Mr. Black himself.” Her tone indicated not even a hint of pride, but instead her body language spoke volumes and provided all the information Sherlock needed: she was ashamed of this work. “Most times, relocation will do. But this client wants no negotiation: Mycroft needs to die.”

“It doesn’t make any sense…” Sherlock said, mostly to himself.

“I’m starting to agree, Sherlock. Further, I don’t trust you, Ms. Gray.”

Ms. Gray spoke quickly, “If Mycroft is killed off, then Spectrum is left with no barriers to infiltrate into every crack in this city. Imagine: every government house or seat occupied by Spectrum agent or client. Laws and bills created to benefit the _felon_ and force the innocent citizen to pay for the privilege to see them transpire.”

“Why would you care?” John spat, stepped in front of Sherlock and confronted Ms. Gray toe to toe.

Sherlock’s words were calmer, almost to himself. “You would be able to do anything you’d please. Why bother trying to deter Mycroft’s demise?”

Ms. Gray squared her shoulders and her gaze never left Sherlock’s eyes. “I have my reasons.”

 “How on earth should we help you? For all we know, Mycroft is hundreds of miles away by now.” John’s hands had balled into fists.

Sherlock remained unmoved, but his ears perked up. _This is intriguing._

“I assure you, he’s not. And for now, he is very much alive. But please hurry, the explosion in his office gave him three…maybe four days of isolation.”

John was bewildered. “You know about the explosion?” He took a small step back from Ms. Gray.

“Of course! I planted it! Right now the press…and the public…believes an attack has forced our government officials to find hiding in secluded and heavily guarded areas…Mycroft included. This buys me enough time to enlist the two of you to stop me.”

 “A client so desperate he or she turns to an established criminal organization to eliminate a government official.” Sherlock was speaking out loud, his fingertips brought together to his lips; he started pacing. John knew this behavior as Sherlock materializing his _disheveled_ inner thoughts forming into articulated coherencies. “I imagine if this client were to face a trial, recent guilty offenses would prove most unbearable for him or her. I imagine the only threat would be a _high_ court trial and an irrefutable guilty verdict…which would put this Spectrum client away for life, or face a death sentence.”

“The ones who have gotten in over their heads are usually the ones to turn to Spectrum, yes.” Ms. Gray assented.

“I’ll take your case, Ms. Gray.”

“What? Sherlock…”

“I believe her, John.”

“What? Sherlock you’re not serious?”

“Do you trust me, John?”

“Unequivocally. Her? Not so much.”

“Good! Because it’s me you’re working with, John. Not her.”

John huffed and his knuckles cracked. “Sherlock, she’s a crook. Which, by the way, Ms. Gray, we won’t accept your laundered money as payment.”

“I assure you, your compensation is clean. I earned it myself fair and square.”

“By doing your boss’ dirty work.”

“Didn’t you hear me, John? She’s not proud of this work. Does she look like a crook to you? What with that expensive, but weathered, parka? That isn’t new; she’s kept it over the years. The sleeves are about a quarter too high on her wrists—indicate growth.” Sherlock’s gaze returned to Ms. Gray’s eyes. “You’ve have that jacket for years, and meanwhile you’ve been earning your own pay. You’ve had plenty of opportunity to buy a newer jacket yet you return to this one again and again.”

Ms. Gray swallowed, a glimmer of sentiment warped over her face. “My mother bought it for me.” Her face then shifted back to stone.

“A likely story. Sherlock, you keep a set of ratty clothes for your _‘undercover work’_ and you can afford to buy plenty of new jackets. Why should I believe her?”

Sherlock kept talking, as if he were alone in his own thoughts back in the flat. “We’re looking for someone who recently committed some sort of heinous crime. Maybe murdered someone, maybe a few? But can also afford to hire Spectrum’s services. But for that same price this person could afford the best attorneys…and yet chooses to work with a criminal network instead. John, we need to get to Scotland Yard, there’s an unsolved murder on their desks which should lead us to Spectrum’s client.”

“Thank you. I’ll find you again, soon.” With that, Ms. Gray turned on her heel and skipped over some puddles and disappeared into the night.

“Hey! No, come back!”

“Let her go, John. We can find our way out. Are you alright?”

“What?”

“Your neck…she was strangling you. Are you alright?”

“Yes, Sherlock, I’m fine. However, I don’t like this case. I don’t trust her. And what the HELL is Spectrum?”

“John, please calm down. Let’s get topside and find some tea. I’m sure you’re quite chilled and I will not have you sick on our first case together again.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry readers! I've started up school again and it seems to require as much dedication as another full time job. I'm suspecting chapter updates will more than likely occur bi-weekly rather than weekly.  
> ...at least, that's my hope.  
> Thank you for reading!

The fireplace at 221B Baker Street was lit and a fire was consuming the three stacked logs inside. John stooped to place a fourth on the burning cinders.

“I don’t like this, Sherlock. I can’t help but get the feeling we’re being played.” John then returned to his arm chair.

He sipped his tea, albeit very quickly. He was enjoying the way the hot liquid ran down this throat—spreading an instant heat under his lungs and into his belly.

The clothes the pair had been wearing earlier had become soaked in icy water, and the short wait in the frigid night trying to hail a taxi had stolen any remaining warmth in their bodies. Sherlock had donned his robe and pajamas. John found himself wearing one of Sherlock’s sweatshirts and a pair of his own jogging pants: forgotten and left behind after he moved in with Mary. He remained in the armchair and stared at Sherlock’s back, only half-expecting a reply.

But Sherlock remained quiet. He just stared at the damask wallpaper over the couch; it had once again become his impromptu bulletin board. A few pages and pictures were tacked up: the underground location circled on a map where they encountered Ms. Gray, recent police blotters outlining the latest major offences…courtesy of Scotland Yard, and Mycroft’s face.

Quiet was not unusual for Sherlock, especially while thinking. So it was also not unusual for John to carry on.

“I mean it, Sherlock. This…Ms. Gray woman…is not trustworthy. I think she’s our prime suspect. I don’t care what you say about her coat, that’s an easy cover. What if she’s secretly a millionaire? Maybe she fell into trouble…”

Sherlock suddenly turned on his heel. “Do you talk about our work, John?”

John blinked. “Sorry, what?”

“To Mary, do you talk about our work?”

John struggled how to respond. “I—I do talk…she knows about some of our cases…why?”

“Before we found Ms. Gray you said, ‘this is not a story for the dinner table’. Did you mean it? You wouldn’t tell Mary about this case?”

“Of course I _would_ talk to her about this case. Unless…do you think our discussions could jeopardize it? What I meant was: I don’t think it’s appropriate to tell her we stalked a woman underground into London’s cesspits.”

“Mmm, yes. Wouldn’t want to set a bad example for William, right?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“ You’re a good man, John. I told you before: you’re the best man I’ve ever known. William is lucky that you’re his father. He’ll grow into a good man too.”

It was very, _very_ unusual for Sherlock to speak so emotionally. John kept his mouth shut, afraid to interfere with Sherlock’s _rare_ sentiments. Situations like this he imagined a timid woodland creature cautiously leaving the safety of a den. One suspicious sound would cause it to disappear—and John was trustworthy for Sherlock to speak so freely.

“That being said, I don’t think there’s much you could do which would ever change that.” Sherlock looked to John under his brow; a sincere smile crept over his face.

John couldn’t help but return his smile with equal genuineness. “Thank you, Sherlock. You know you are…”

“This client we’re trying to track.” Sherlock interrupted, instantly morphing back into his calculating self and turned back to the wall.  “It has to be related to one of these reports. A case any older and the perpetrator would have either already figured out a way to escape on his own…”

“…or her own…”

“Either way, this client isn’t seasoned in the matters of major crimes, but refuses turn to the law to help. This person understands _completely_ that anything provided to Scotland Yard or an attorney is hopeless to be proven innocent. This was a very recent…very desperate decision.”

“Or we’re being played the fool, Sherlock. How can you believe Ms. Gray? She must have a record…what if Lestrade…”

“…I trust Ms. Gray because you’re alive, John.”

John could only blink and gape at Sherlock’s back. One thousand thoughts surged through John’s mind trying to grasp what Sherlock was trying to communicate.

One second…two seconds…three seconds ticked past…

John slowly realized Sherlock had meant that Ms. Gray let him live…she CHOOSE to keep him alive. He wasn’t about to give HER that much credit—it was Sherlock’s negotiating which, in part, helped John survive his attacker.

“I’m fine, Sherlock! It was a letter opener! There was nothing she could have done which I couldn’t have handled. She’s a liar and a fraud. Not dangerous.”

Sherlock had begun to pace at this point, meeting John’s gaze every few turns or so. “Ms. Gray is a woman who has been dragged into a criminal organization which boasts a _radical_ gang-mentality. She’s been trained…to an extent…to treat her targets with little regard or mercy.” He stopped short and refocused on the wall; becoming very still. “The fact that she targeted us and didn’t kill you tells more to me about her true nature than anything she could vocalize.”

“You said it yourself, Sherlock, she isn’t a very good fighter. I seriously doubt she could have done much harm to me.”

Sherlock suddenly spun around from the wall and crossed the space of the room to meet John nearly nose to nose; he was suddenly rather frantic. “But she could have, John! You could be dead right now! How could you do that! What about William? Or Mary? Or me?”

“Easy, Sherlock.” John sat up to inch even closer to Sherlock…John could tell, even without a stethoscope that Sherlock’s heart rate was extremely elevated. “I’m not going anywhere. She couldn’t have done me in…I’m a bit tougher than that. YOU are the one who is alive again and we’re back on a case. Like how things were! How could I not fight for that?”

The two friends were silent…their breathing trying to vocalize how emotional things had become: unsteady and heavy. “Whatever happens, John…I meant it on your wedding day…I will _always_ be there for you. For you and Mary…for you both and William. I couldn’t live with myself knowing I’d failed you…”

“Sherlock, shut up! You didn’t fail me. I’m right here! What the hell has gotten into you? You are NEVER like this. Seriously, what’s wrong?”

Sherlock took a long steadying breath and stood up straight. His gaze never left John’s face, but his eyes swept over John’s features…as if his face could show him the words he was trying to say.

But it was John who found the courage to break the silence: “You said ‘our work’.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to blink blankly at John. “What?”

“Earlier…you asked if I talk about _our work_. What _you_ do, putting together the missing pieces which no one else sees…except you…solving crimes…you always call it ‘the work’. You’re always the independent one, you even said it once: ‘alone is what I have…alone protects me’. Why the sudden change…?”

“Sudden? No, John. This isn’t sudden. You must understand that I value our friendship, our partnership, above anything else in this world. I just didn’t realize how much I had based my life around **us** until…I fell.” Both friends swallowed at the raw memory; their eyes locked as if trying to prove to their minds the other was real… _alive._

“So forgive me, John, if I’ve never vocalized it before…or enough…but you don’t quite know how essential you are to me. To THE work. The work isn’t the same without you…it’s _our_ work. You and I work together. I told you before: I’d be lost without my blogger.” He smirked and John couldn’t help but laugh at the old memory.

It seemed ages ago.

“But things have changed, haven’t they, John? You can’t keep doing this, can you?”

John frowned. “Sherlock…” He started to contest, but found truth in Sherlock’s assumption. John had been practically beside himself taking in Sherlock’s praises for him and their partnership. But Sherlock’s mastery of logic instantly bridged the gap of John’s unformed doubts: how could he do this _and_ be a family man?

Not to mention his responsibility to the surgery.

He suddenly felt too stretched thin—there just wasn’t enough of him to satisfy all of the loves in his life.

Sherlock retorted John’s unspoken rebuttal with a sad smile. “John, I understand. I left you years ago; and I left you nothing but memories. Oh, how it pained me to know you were suddenly feeling stranded with nowhere to turn! But what kept me alive was…I knew you were alive. But you thought I was dead. You had to move on. You have, haven’t you? Things can’t be the way things were, can they?”

John peeled himself out of the armchair and stood straight to meet Sherlock’s gaze eye to eye. “Sherlock, hear me, please. You’re my best friend. That will never change. Nothing…come hell or high water or criminal masterminds could ever change that. I’m honored you would consider this…” He gestured around the flat, “… _our_ work. I will do everything I can to be the assistant you need.”

“ _Assistant?_ No, John. You’re my partner! We are equals. Also, thank you. But I’m right, aren’t I? You can’t do this again.”

“Well…maybe…no. No! I want to! I don’t know…could I…?” John suddenly was feeling angry at himself for speaking like a fool. But words couldn’t quite articulate how desperate he wanted to do their work again, but how much he also felt dragged in all directions with equal force.

“I fear this may be our last case for quite some time, John.” Sherlock’s voice was low and gentle; it carried a tone which matched what John might use when delivering a terminal diagnosis.

But much like the brave patient facing death head on, John also gathered his strength and courage and stood a bit straighter. “Then let’s make it unforgettable. Let’s find this arse.”

But that is when John’s phone rang.

John barely registered the clock on the wall as he wiggled into his pockets to retrieve the phone. “Oh it’s late…this won’t be good.” He produced the phone and read the display and his heart sank. “It’s Mary. Excuse me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded, his mouth shaping into a thin line. But he didn’t vacate the room, only stepped away from John.

John moved up against the flat’s front facing windows, partially to get better reception, but partly to distance himself from Sherlock—somehow domesticity and his best friend didn’t quite belong in the same conversation.

Sherlock couldn’t outright hear Mary on the other end of the call, but based on John’s tone and his rigid body language, even from behind, he could tell he was about to be abandoned.

“Hello, love. Is everything alright? What happened…what did the doctor say…oh…I’ll stop on my way home from…how did you know? Oh…alright…I’ll see you within an hour.”

John disconnected the call with barely a “good-bye” and turned to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s face was stone, unreadable...even to John. “You need to leave.”

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock…”

“No need for apologies, John. You have a family who needs you now more than me.”

John struggled to argue: his family needed him…as much as he needed Sherlock.

Instead, he settled on a heavy sigh and moved toward his old bedroom.

“John? The door is down this way, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“My shirt is upstairs…”

“Dr. Watson I will not have you walking home in this frigid air in that damp shirt. Keep mine. You can return it later.” _I need you to come back._

“Thank you, _mother_. I will be fine…”

Sherlock dramatically rolled his eyes before squaring off with John’s gaze. “Again, I will not have you sick because of me. Take the dry clothes. Go on, now.”

John sighed, seemingly defeated, but he smiled. “Thank you, Sherlock. I’ll see you.” He grabbed his coat and nearly ran down the stairs.

Sherlock was once again alone in his flat.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very mild sexual content in this chapter.

A bleary eyed John Watson stood vigilant over the temperamental toaster: _Toaster Monster._ He and Mary had cheerfully accepted the larger-than-average appliance as wedding gift…right around the same time they discovered Mary was pregnant. But now after daily morning of uses and _overuses_ , it’s mastery of crisping baked goods seemed similar to playing roulette: only by chance did the user gain the result desired. More often than not, if left unattended, the appliance was infamous for charring its contents. So it was this morning, like many mornings before and many more to come (until a replacement could be afforded) someone had to supervise the toaster.

This particular morning that responsibility fell on Dr. Watson.

The second round of bread slices had just been introduced into the heated cavities of the device and John moved away to turn on the kettle. _At least the kettle doesn’t need supervision._ He stood over the stovetop and glanced frequently in the direction of the toaster, monitoring the bread’s toasty development.

It didn’t feel so far off from how last night had gone, either.

After John returned home, after leaving Sherlock and stopping by the pharmacy, Mary had all but fallen asleep with William in her arms downstairs. John swooped in and took his son and ordered Mary to bed. She protested weakly, but surrendered and retreated up to the master bedroom.

John was left, to once again, take on night watch alone.

He rocked William as he paced around the ground floor, trying to soothe the infant’s symptoms.

The infant’s fever did eventually break, but at this point John had gone beyond tired and caught a second wind. He tucked William into his crib and stood above him, watching him sleep. Something peaceful washed over John, standing over his sleeping son. It was a mix of pride and deep love for his baby boy that he couldn’t explain nor did he care how his life could change so radically and yet become very much normal.

John smiled in the dark night…although the morning dawn would creep up on the world within the hour…he and Mary had brought William into the world. Their son was here. _We did it out of love._

The thin walls in the house gave away any movement coming from upstairs: Mary had left the master bedroom and was now descending the staircase. “John?”

John, startled, was immediately jolted back to the present and spun around to meet his wife’s gaze at the bottom of the stairs. She was wearing little more than her night-shirt and socks.

“Morning! Toast?”

Mary eyed the small plate of browned bread pieces on the countertop.  “Only if Toaster Monster didn’t fry it. Jam?” She crossed the space from the stairs to her husband, kissing him deeply.

When the kiss broke, John couldn’t help but smile. “I kept an eye on those. In the cupboard.”

“Thank you, dear. How was William? His door was closed, I didn’t dare wake him.”

“The fever broke around…” John thought for a moment. “…3 in the morning. He’s been asleep ever since. I don’t think he’ll wake for a while. Or, at least I hope not. It’s best to let him rest and heal.”

Mary’s innocent smile suddenly turned mischievous. “Then…shall we make the most of our morning alone?” She crossed back towards him, a swish of her hips in her stride exaggerating her coy suggestion. She snaked her arms around his shoulders, and dragged her palms down his torso before lingering between his hips.

John swallowed as a rush of heat surged right to his groin. “Well, it has been a while…” He tucked a bed tossed strand of hair behind her ear and breathed her scent in deeply. She smelled like bed and comfort.

He thought about the last time they had sex. He thought about the sheets twisted around their feet. He thought about the sweat beaded on their skin. He thought about how _tight_ she felt around his cock…even after bringing their baby into the world. He hummed deep in this throat recalling the memories.

He cupped her face and kissed her again. He freed one hand and let it drift to her behind. Circling her bare skin where the shirt left her exposed, he then twisted his hand to her front and suddenly discovered _heat_ between her legs. A gasp escaped his lips.

Mary’s wicked smile only widened as she snuggled up to his front and her hips leaned into his—his member suddenly at full attention. “You are…smoking.” She breathed.

“I think, my lovely, that’d be you.” Eyes closing, John sighed and it ended with an aroused grumble; he pulled her closer.

“No…John! The toaster.”              

He snapped his eyes open and, in a quick movement, released Mary and spun to try to save the toaster’s contents. His member suddenly became flaccid.

Mary burst out laughing; the bright sound a stark contrast to the sexy, throaty noises just moments before.

But despite Mary’s warning and John’s best attempts to save breakfast, the hard, _blackened_ toast was beyond salvaging.

Mary was still laughing as John, with as much grace as handling a ticking grenade, tossed the ruined toast into the compost. Once the remains were discarded, he leaned up against the counter and could only smile apologetically.

“Oh, John! Is this just our life now? Trying to rescue breakfast or our sex lives?”

John’s smile turned into a frown very suddenly. “What’s wrong with our sex lives?”

“Not enough jam and toast.”

“No, seriously. I know we’re trying to figure out how to do this and balance William. But…I thought we were okay?”

Mary had stopped laughing, but her smile still lingered on her face—her eyes bright and lovely. But she didn’t cross the room again.

“John, I love you. And yes, we’re okay. I guess I miss how some things were before…before William.”

“Like sex?”

“Like the _time_ we had…to have sex.”

“But the sex now…when we find time…is okay?”

Mary nodded ardently. “I’m just concerned more that your time is being swallowed too much by surgery and missing persons.”

“Well it’s…hey! Did Sherlock call you?”

“No! You know he only texts.”

“Christ! How _did_ you know? You called last night when you asked me to get the prescription…”

“You always are sure to call me from work if you’re tied up. I didn’t hear anything from you and after that explosion at the government building…I was sure it had caught Sherlock’s attention…it wasn’t a hard guess what happened to you.”

He recalled Sherlock’s inquiry the night earlier: _Do you talk about our work?_

To which John had replied: _Of course I would._

_No more secrets._

John took a breath and considered his next words carefully.

“May I ask you something about that explosion?”

Mary’s face fell completely. “Alright.”

“Do you think it was real?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

Mary spoke very deliberately and carefully. “John, what do you know? The news is talking about terrorist attacks and a possible war and you’re asking me if I think it is _real_?”

“Mary, calm down. It’s clear you believe it’s real…”

“ _Believe_ …? You’re saying it’s…it didn’t happen? Then…how…?”

Before Mary could jump to any of course conclusions, John interrupted. “Sherlock has been asked to find someone…a very _nasty_ someone…who has given orders to kill Mycroft.”

Mary could only blink...twice more before she was able to speak again—keeping her tumble of thoughts internally. “Jesus, John…what is happening to the world?”

“Burned toast, for one.” John and Mary leaped where they stood and whipped their heads to the front door, where Sherlock had just emerged.

“Good God, Sherlock! Knock next time, please!”

“And risk waking William? You two did give me a key.”

Mary floated out of the kitchen and into the nearby bathroom and retrieved her robe—at least now she’d be more covered than socks and a shirt.

“Yes we did, you are always welcome, mate…but seriously, it’s downright spooky to creep up on us like that.”

Mary laughed, returning to the kitchen. Suddenly the weight of the previous conversation had been suspended. “John was recalling your… _case_?”

“It’s actually why I came here.” He sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose. “Did you  _murder_ the bread, John? Honestly, Toaster Monster needs to be put down.”

Mary cracked a smile and found John’s eyes. “He got a bit distracted.”

“Well, that’s easy to do when arouse…”

“Shut up, Sherlock!”

Sherlock pursed his lips together obediently at John’s orders and Mary laughed heartily again and sat down at their breakfast table.

Between giggles, Mary asked, “What about the case, Sherlock?”

He seated himself across from Mary, and John placed the stack of salvageable toast and jam jar on the surface and sat between them. The kettle by this time had started to whistle and John took three mugs and set them before Mary, Sherlock, and the remaining empty seat.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to go digging up old skeletons, Mary. But given your…previous line of work…I thought I would ask you something.”

John paused where he stood, tea box in hand, a simultaneous streak of irrational rage and tremendous puzzlement surged through his system; Sherlock was being outright courteous to Mary. The three of them had become a tight niche of friends—gentility took a back seat when the trust and bonds among the three of them was more monumental than civility. For God’s sake, no one within this trio would think twice about taking a bullet for the other.

One already had.

Sherlock was being discernably polite.

Each of them took a different tea bag and began dunking them in their respective mugs. The mugs were from a matching set…another wedding present. John had graciously accepted them and made sure they were at eye level when opening the cupboard; they all matched and had a manufactured look about them. Mary wasn’t too keen on them, she preferred the more disheveled look of a cupboard full of mismatched cups and mugs acquired over the years; maybe one day their home could look like that. A lifetime of memories told in mugs. 

 _He’s up to something._ John sat down between Sherlock and Mary and automatically grabbed a slice of bread and slathered the dark fruit spread over its surface.

Meanwhile Mary stared down Sherlock and something dangerous flashed in her eyes; anticipating a new weight with the oncoming conversation, she suddenly felt emotionally… _heavy_. Her spotty past had been long since buried, as far as her and John had been concerned. Letting it resurface again felt as if the dangerous life she once lead could bleed into her new one.

…and that included William.

She could almost feel her skin prickle defensively.

Sherlock understood her apprehension and put up a hand, the gesture suggesting she wait to hear him out. “How much do you know about Spectrum?”

John nearly choked on his toast. “How dare you, Sherlock! You would peg her as one of them?”

“No, John, I’m not pegging your wife as one of them. I’m networking; I’m guessing whatever ‘boss’ had previously employed Mary’s _skills_ had encountered Spectrum. ‘Know thy enemy’. Mary, please? I’m asking you to enlighten us—you’re familiar with the group?”

“And I wish I weren’t.” She took a steadying breath and reached for John’s free hand…his other one mid bite with his jam and toast. “Spectrum is a network of ‘specialists’. They’re divided into two categories: negotiators and extractors. Sometimes agents can overlap, but not too often. They make a living from their ‘clients’ who turn to Spectrum to finish jobs. Think of them as the professional contractors who swoop in to save a horrid do-it-yourself renovation.”

“I’m guessing the jobs they have in mind involved less carpentry or plumbing.”

Mary huffed out a weak laugh. “Yes, John. Jobs ranged from stealing priceless artifacts from galleries or museums. Or smuggling a witness, out of the country—preventing a key piece of evidence from surfacing in court…”

“Is that why Mycroft’s been targeted, Sherlock?” John asked. “Did Mycroft see something he shouldn’t have?”

“It would seem so, John…”

“But why order to kill him?” John turned back to Mary. “I thought you said this group trafficked people?”

Sherlock spoke up. “John, honestly, can you imagine Mycroft being anonymous? He’s too high profile to keep alive somewhere; this Spectrum client knows that his death is required. A task like this would cost a _very_ pretty penny.”

Mary continued, “Spectrum offers its agents the freedom to make appropriate judgments as to which targets live or die. This is because most orders are vague, and clients pay extra to apply specific requests to an agent. Unlike…unlike what _we_ did: leave no witnesses.”

Mary paused, her memory sweeping back to a blackened past. Suddenly dead faces flashed behind her eyes: her targets blank and surprised expressions where her bullet had found its mark between their eyes. _So many of them._ She pushed back the memories and locked them away in her own little mind attic.

Mary continued, returning from her memories and rejoined the present. “But these types of jobs at Spectrum become ‘high priority’ and are usually given to the higher ranked agents.”

Sherlock swallowed and remembered the blade against John’s throat. 

John was no fool, he saw Sherlock’s worried frown and involuntarily rubbed his own neck. “Christ, Sherlock. I told you she was no good.”

“Who?” Mary demanded.

Sherlock answered: “Miss Gray.”

Mary’s mouth dropped open, a word caught in her throat. Whatever it was she was about to say vanished as she stammered to speak again. “Miss… _Gray_?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, as in: a shade from black. Do you know her, Mary?

“No, the name has never been used before. But it’s obvious you know more than you let on, Sherlock.” Sherlock scrunched his face and a guilty expression crept over his features; he resembled a man awaiting a blow to the face. Mary could only respond with a smug grin as she continued speaking. “What is more obvious it that tells us a lot about Spectrum’s ranks, these days.”

John shook his head; he sometimes felt lost when Sherlock and Mary conversed.

“Obvious…how? It’s not obvious to me! When we were underground, Sherlock, how did you know Miss Gray was a Spectrum agent?”

“John, when we first met in St. Bart’s, Mike introduced you as ‘John Watson’. I introduced myself as ‘Sherlock Holmes’. When the woman we met underground introduced herself, she only said ‘Miss Gray’.”

“It does sound like a cover-up.” John admitted, the fog clearing slightly. “You figured out she was a Spectrum agent from her name…er, code-name? Like 007?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Albeit far less sophisticated and refined, yes. There’s only one criminal network in this corner of the world that turns to colors as their classifications…”

“…and it’s also obvious that Miss Gray isn’t just a typical agent, she’s next in line to be crowned leader of Spectrum.” Her eyes locked with John’s. “…and you MET her?”

“…and lived to tell about it.” Sherlock spoke over his tea.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Mary demanded.

But it was the bawling of William, heard through the thin walls from upstairs, which halted the conversation.

“I’ll get him.” John began to push his chair away from the table.

But Mary grabbed his hand, restraining him. “No, John! Stay here. He needs to learn…”

“Yes, I know. He needs to start to learn independence.” He spoke like a school boy reciting classroom rules. “But, Mary? He’s still recovering!”

“We agreed, John!” Mary didn’t release John; she was ruthlessly stubborn. “He will calm down in a bit!”

“What if he can’t breathe, Mary? Are we going to let these… _rules_ …override his health?”

Mary sighed. “Give him 10 minutes. If he doesn’t calm down by then, one of us can go and get him. I mean myself or _John_ , Sherlock.  

“Christ, Mary!” John carried on—even more aggravated now that his wife had excluded his best friend from their midst. “He’s still a sick baby. There’s no Bible on how to raise a baby! No wrath of hell will come down because we intruded on his space while he’s recovering from…pneumonia!”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t tell me that, John.”

John voice softened. “I only read the antibiotics prescribed last night after I left your flat.”

Mary ran her fingers through her hair. “We didn’t know until yesterday—Dr. Azul diagnosed him.”

“Wait, say that again. What is William’s doctor’s name?”

“Well, usually we see Dr. Patrick. But he was called off site yesterday, so we saw Dr. Azul.”

“No, Mary—”

“Shh! Everyone be quiet!” John held up a hand to silence everyone. The room felt quiet.

Very quiet.

“Do you hear that?” John asked, just above a whisper.

Sherlock shook his head. “No.”

“Neither do I.” Admitted Mary, cocking her head—trying to help her ears listen for whatever John had heard.

“Exactly. William’s fallen quiet.” John’s voice was low and steady. But Sherlock read this as John getting on the defensive.

Sherlock frowned. “That was fast.”

“Too fast. That’s not like him at all.”

The three of them stared at each other and then the sounds of footsteps were heard overhead. 

There were coming from William’s nursery.


	10. Chapter 10

John leapt from his chair first, followed by Sherlock and Mary simultaneously. John lead the way up the stairs first, Sherlock behind him at his heels—not Mary’s choice—and John saw it as Sherlock’s way of protecting Mary.

They crept quietly down the windowless hallway to William’s nursery door, still closed. The three of them looking like a small SWAT team; fronts pressed to the other’s backside, John in the lead, tip-toeing gingerly to stay quiet. John held up a hand to halt their progression—Sherlock had spent far too many nights jumping rooftops and ducking for cover around corners with John to understand exactly what he was planning on doing next.

_He’s going in._

Sherlock reached for John’s shirt cuff. John whipped his head and met Sherlock’s stare. “Let me.” The words were inaudible, but John saw them formed on his lips.

John shook his head—held up his hand again and skipped to the master bedroom adjacent to them. He returned with his pistol in hand.

Sherlock heard Mary swallow behind him—John just crossed a very dangerous line. More appropriately, whoever was in the nursery with William just declared war with the Watsons; and the former Captain had his battle plans etched out mentally.

Sherlock’s memory skipped back suddenly to the night he met John and the case which solidified their partnership. Sherlock had isolated the cabbie on a killing spree and was about to give the word to arrest the man, but then an exceptionally unexpected new game unfolded. And Sherlock couldn’t resist proving his cleverness—even if it cost him his life. But then there was a shot and the cabbie was down…a bullet hole through the window pane told the story of the shooter.

 _John_.

John…who had only met him that day and had already developed an intense duty to protect Sherlock. John was a straight-forward man; much like Sherlock threw away any excess from a crime scene down to the necessary facts, John seemed to always have a plan and often jumped right to the point. In this case: shooting down the cabbie before he could become a further risk.

Sherlock had never felt so utterly complete before John. He _thought_ he knew completeness when he fell into solving crimes when he was younger; his world had just made sense. But then John became a part of his world and a void was suddenly filled somewhere within him—something Sherlock had not realized had been empty. It was hard now to think about life without him.

The years he had spent hiding abroad had sent Sherlock into a state of depression; he missed John and the life they shared. He realized, after one pitifully wretched night, he would do anything to get that back.

He braved physical punishment and torture (psychological and otherwise) fighting his way back to London. After enduring a long captive period in an Eastern European prison he managed to escape back home.

Back home to John.  

It was easy for Sherlock to fall back into a life with John: dangerous and electrifying. Taking on this home intruder was a cake walk for the pair.

Sherlock took a steadying breath and met John’s gaze—he reached for the knob. _I’ll cover you._

At John’s signal he opened the door towards him, shielding himself and Mary. John stood, gun drawn and aimed and then, steady as a statue, then stepped into the nursery.

All Mary could do was to hold her breath—at least before she could get her hands on whoever was threatening her son.

Suddenly her old life’s actions didn’t seem so inessential any longer; she was fairly certain she was going to _kill_ this trespasser. Her blood pounded in her ears and it took all her strength to stay tight and watch her husband charge into combat before her.

Sherlock stood and spun to enter the doorframe, only steps behind John.

Then he found a familiar pair of steely-gray eyes staring back at him.

With snoozing William in her arms.

“You!” John snarled. The gun’s _CLICK_ of the chamber locking into place was a _piercing_ sound in the otherwise quiet nursery.

The sound made Mary instinctively leap into action and found herself at Sherlock’s side—his muscle-defined arm thrown across her chest was the only barrier between her and this intruder.

Mary blinked a few times at the _menace_ standing in the bright, warm nursery—the baby snuggled up in her arms. William didn’t really seem to notice anything was wrong and he cooed happily.

But the gray-eyed young… _familiar_ … woman holding her son had a cropped halo of jet-black hair clipped back with gray barrettes. Wearing a rather shabby parker and sand-colored pants…the knees were all but worn out…and, of all things, a pair of silver sneakers. _Not exactly dressed for winter._

“Miss Gray! I didn’t think we were expecting you.” Sherlock let the words roll off his tongue and saturate the air; he spoke low and deliberately. His eyes flashed and the two pairs of steely eyes were locked together.

“ _Gray_?” Mary breathed, still shielded by Sherlock. “Spectrum?”

Miss Gray disconnected her stare down with Sherlock and met Mary’s eyes instead.

Mary went weak in the knees.

 “God, no…not _you_.”

Three _very_ confused faces all turned attention to Mary.

But it was Miss Gray who called for order. “Dr. Watson?” She spoke just as softly and deliberately as Sherlock had. “I’ll need to you come and draw the shades.”

John tore his stare away from Mary and met Miss Gray’s steely eyes. “Excuse me?”

“Quickly, please?” Miss Gray’s voice cracked at the end.

John lowered his weapon, but passed it to Sherlock without ever breaking eye contact. John made a straight line for the window.

“Careful!” Miss Gray pleaded. But something in her tone made John reconsider his course—she sounded helpless and terrified all in one squeak of a word.             

He hugged the wall and without putting his body in front of the window pane pulled the shade down.

As he did, a red laser dot was illuminated on the opaque material.

“Good heavens!” Mary squeaked, horror choking her vocal chords. It was only Sherlock’s solid form blocking her path which held her in place…instead of blindly rushing headfirst to get to William.

And the young woman.

John, intuitively, remained up against the solid wall. But Miss Gray stepped into the window’s space now. She visibly relaxed and turned to John standing behind her. “It’s alright, now. They can’t see us anymore. Please, take him and get everyone to the back of the house.”              

No one argued, and John took William from Miss Gray’s arms and headed to the door. Sherlock lowered his arm and John exited the nursery into the shelter of the windowless hallway.

But hell hath no wrath like an angry mother. Miss Gray, who followed John out on his heels, was struck by Mary at the doorway with a _CRACK_ across her face.

Miss Gray didn’t make a noise, but her head and neck seemed stunned in place after the blow.

“That’s for threatening our son.”

“I wasn’t threat…”

 _CRACK_. This time the strike came to the other side of her face.

“That was for being an idiot.”

Miss Gray didn’t dare meet Mary’s eyes, but lowered her head in submission. She remained still and very quiet.

“Are we safe here?” Mary directed the question to John, as she crossed the tiny space and embraced William in John’s arms.

Sherlock shut the nursery door, the sound of screeching tires echoed noisily in the street outside.

“I believe we are.” Sherlock answered. “The laser dot was gone.”

Miss Gray audibly breathed a sigh of relief, and allowed herself to bring her fingertips to rub each cheek. “You’re safe for now…they’re gone.”

“Yes, thank you for the update. What the HELL is going on?” John snarled at Miss Gray. He had shifted his body so that William was curled up against his right shoulder and he faced Miss Gray with his left side—his body effectively acting as a shield.

Mary patted the infant’s head and her other hand never left his back—William still remained rather unperturbed despite being passed around so much today. Mary’s rubbing in circles on his back seemed to comfort herself more than the child. Her intense stare regarding her son seemed to subside away, like a wave leaving the shore, her rage melted away; it was replaced with immense relief.

But Sherlock was caught in the middle between Miss Gray—stunned where she stood after Mary struck her—and John’s fury.

“You’re being watched.” Miss Gray posed, her voice was steady but her cheeks still burned red and she gave the impression of an angry kitten more than a poised agent.

“By Spectrum.” Sherlock supplied.

“You brought them here, you… _liar_! You lead a network of assassins here and they threatened my family. Threatened our infant _son_!” John’s words were even and calm but he exploded over his last few words. William shrieked in protest in his arms.

Mary quickly scooped up the infant and cuddled him over her shoulder as John had. Now John stood in front of Mary, completely blocking both of them from Miss Gray.

However, standing in front of Miss Gray was Sherlock. The two old friends stood toe to toe and regarded each other.

“John, listen to me. Miss Gray didn’t lead Spectrum agents to watch you and Mary.”

“Sherlock, don’t be daft! Why else would they be here?”

“Because I’m here.”

John blinked. “Why would a criminal agency care if you visit us?”

Sherlock’s expression screwed in contemplation. “Look at the facts: Spectrum agent Miss Gray has been tasked with obtaining…and then bumping off…Mycroft. Miss Gray, for reasons still beyond me, needs Mycroft alive and has enlisted us to track this client who has allegedly ordered his removal. Mycroft has been missing for days now and I’ve no doubt this high-paying client has become restless. I imagine that other Spectrum agents may try to disregard the orders given to Miss Gray and take it upon themselves to seek out Mycroft. Despite being a private detective I happen to also have a rather public reputation and following. Who would be the next best person to confront on Mycroft’s whereabouts than his brother?”

For all his brilliance and confidence, Sherlock appeared ashamed; his face skewed in a guilty expression. _I’m so sorry, John._

John sighed heavily, but did not appear relaxed. “Sherlock, you did not lead a crazy team of assassins to our doorstep. Do not blame yourself.”

“It does make sense…” Miss Gray started.

“Not a word from you!” John snapped, redirecting his gaze from Sherlock to Miss Gray behind him. “All the same, if you’re the next best target, Sherlock. You can’t be left alone!”

“I can’t stay around here, John!”

“Then let’s get out of here and…”

John felt himself be spun around and came nose to nose with Mary as she delivered John a blazing stare down. “No, John.” She commanded. “You’re not continuing this. Whatever it is, it’s too dangerous, even for you.”

John snipped, “I can handle myself, Mary…”

“Think about William! Things are different this time!” Mary was nearly shrieking now. “You cannot go out and take on Spectrum.”

John glowered at his wife. “Oh, okay. But you’re ready and willing to let Sherlock go and risk his life to take them on?” He bellowed.

Mary threw her free hand up in the air. Twisting her wrist and flicking it in a frustrated gesture. “He doesn’t have a family to concern himself with!”

“Doesn’t he?” John was fuming, but Mary’s fury was right there with his.

“John! You are _my_ husband. William is _our_ son. You are a family man now. I’m asking you to stay away from Spectrum.”

Meanwhile Sherlock, shock of all shocks, had remained quiet and observant throughout their quarrel; the guilty expression hadn’t left his face. _Now I’m the trigger to their fighting._

“Especially from her!” Mary pointed at Miss Gray, who also hadn’t moved and was in an equal state of stillness and silence. 

John became very still, a small grin twisted over his lips, but beneath the meek gesture an internal storm was brewing. Sherlock had come to understand John’s rage very well, and this was the first sign of a greater outburst.

“John?” Sherlock asked quietly. He sincerely hated seeing John in such a state, especially if he was to blame. “I’m going to leave now. I will text you. And Miss Gray is coming with me.”

“What?” John’s face screwed in confusion.

 _At least he’s calmed down a little._  Sherlock thought.

“I am?” Miss Gray looked up at Sherlock’s face.

“What good could she possibly be to you?” John demanded.

“What good is she at all?” Mary quipped. William at this point had fallen back to sleep—the baby very much at ease snuggled in his mother’s arms.

John was determined. “Sherlock, I should be with you! What about…?”

“I was right wasn’t I?” Sherlock interrupted quietly and he and John shared a sad look. “You can’t do this again, can you?”

“THIS was going to be our last case _for a while_! You’d take her over _me_?”

“Never, John. No one comes before you.” Sherlock spoke as if he and John were the only people in the hallway. “But a threat has come to your family…to Mary and William…you need to stay here and protect them…”

“The threat is gone!” Now John was getting desperate.

"So long as _she’s_ here, the threat is still here.” Mary snarled.

 "This is exactly why I’m taking her away from the three of you.” Sherlock turned to catch Miss Gray’s eyes and without warning grabbed her wrist in a strong grip.

Miss Gray attempted to struggle and pull free from Sherlock’s unyielding grip. A noise bubbled up from her throat, like a panicked animal caught in a snare.

Sherlock continued speaking to John, unmoved by her panic. “Along the way, I’m sure Miss Gray would be more than obliging to share some details regarding her current assignment and exactly how much she knows about Mycroft. Especially considering how close you came to shooting her in the head, I’m sure she’s very grateful to be alive.” Sherlock glanced and captured John’s gaze over his last few words before staring down Miss Gray, his eyes demanding her compliance.

Miss Gray stilled and nodded earnestly. “Yes, of course.” She squeaked. She stared up at him. Sherlock was well over a foot taller than Miss Gray and he was just as impressive in muscle as he was in height. What was truly overwhelming about being so close to Sherlock while under his thumb…literally…were his unyielding steel eyes. His whole body seemed to exude how dangerous he could be.

“Good! Shall we?”

Sherlock started to move towards the staircase downstairs, his iron grip on Miss Gray’s wrist dragging her behind him.

John didn’t move to stop him, instead he stilled again but this time it wasn’t the rage which pinned him in place, it was the tendrils of depression. John felt truly whole while working with Sherlock and suddenly his world felt as if it were splitting at the seams—Sherlock was walking away from him with the enemy at his side.

"That’s it then?” He griped. Echoing the earliest words he spoke to Sherlock on their first encounter.

Sherlock smiled—he recalled the sentimental words. “Is that what?” He stalled at the top step with Miss Gray attached at his side and met John’s gaze.

“You come asking for my help with a case and now you’re leaving me…and taking her instead?” Every instinct in his body screamed to take out Miss Gray and put himself at Sherlock’s side. But the soldier in him also knew when to fall into rank or when duty called to be a leader; in this instance he begrudgingly followed Sherlock’s orders.

Sherlock’s brows came together. “Heavens! Is that what this looks like? Hardly, my friend. What’s happening here is leverage, John.” He indicated his grip on Miss Gray with the tilt of his head. “But perhaps you could still be working the case from the safety of your home. For starters: how on earth do Mary and Miss Gray know each other, for example?”

With nothing more than a quick nod in Mary’s direction, he spun and with Miss Gray in tow, descended the stairs. The sound of the back door hissing closed was the only indication they’d left the house.

John was left alone with more secrets to pry from his wife.


End file.
